You Were My 11:17 Wish

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I started to make a wish on 11:11 when I realise it was actually 11:17, and I had just misread the last digit. That’s what adoration you felt like.

I never intended to dive head first into that activity with you. But they should’ve interpreted your smile after three shoots of Jose, and I can’t put into messages for your best friend the nature your weapons wrap around my waist like God stimulated them solely for that purpose.

There was this feeling of alternative in the air exclusive to those night, heated summer lights that felt like nirvana. I didn’t intend on love you, but late nighttime infatuation starts to disguise itself after a while, doesn’t it? And who was I to object?

You’d sit on my plot and announce me beautiful from across the room. I should’ve shown when you were busy on your phone minutes later.

You determine, I used to hate the girls you betrayed my trust with. I’d find their social media chronicles, drink in their faces, “peoples lives”, I’d know their specifies. Stomach careening while I scrolled.

It wasn’t until a month ago that I realise I never disliked the girl child at all. I detested you. I detested the nighttimes where I was awake at 4 wants to know why I hadn’t heard from you. I detested the darkness I was up at 5, wondering why you didn’t wishes to circulate our relations. And at 6, because why was that random girlfriend commenting on your videos calling you “babe”? 7, because why wasn’t I enough? God, why wasn’t I fairly?

On the nights where alcohol would punch our veins, and tomorrow morning was a mere recommendation, I retain sidestepping you for an answer to that question.

But have you ever seen someone who can’t enter into negotiations with their own guilt? Do you know what kind of brute that is? Your singer would raise, screeching,’ shut the hell up or get the hell out.’

I’d see your eyes lighten for perhaps the quickest second, a sad son trapped inside a hulk-like stature.

Minutes afterwards you could be in berthed snoring while I stifled announcements on your bedroom floor. Our favorite programme. Whose father taught us that bruises merely received from blood fists?

I remember I forgave you for not being the person or persons I daydream you to be when I forgave myself for staying long past knowing you weren’t. You can’t live carrying a heaviness like that.

I sealed it in an envelope with a kiss and mailed it on its way, hoping that maybe the affection I share with the next person will be more like 11:11 and less like 11:17.

Read more: https :// chloe-rabinowitz/ 2018/02/ you-were-my-1 117 -wish /